


aberrant

by Chainsawlicker



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Codependency, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 21:05:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16415951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chainsawlicker/pseuds/Chainsawlicker
Summary: The concept of living without Murphy, of not sleeping with him so close he can hear his breathing, is inconceivable.





	aberrant

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to DrSchaf for all the help and advice and general hand-holding.

He and Murphy are in the fourth grade when he realizes his affection for his brother isn’t typical.

There’s a new kid that year. His name is Michael.

At first he doesn’t worry. It’s just a couple times of making him wait and one occasion of not showing up at all. He doesn’t think about it. Much. Except when he does and it makes a twisted snake of nausea and anger in his belly.

Losing him.

Standing on the pitch, at recess, Murphy and Brian O'Roark are randomly chosen for team captains. Murphy wins the coin toss and has first pick from their assembled classmates.

He’s halfway to his brother’s side before he realizes Murphy didn’t say his name. He didn’t say “Connor” as his first choice like he’s done since the first day they ever held a football. Murphy said, “Michael”.

He barely hears the laughter from the other students over the rush of blood in his ears. Brian calls his name.

It’s the first time they are on different teams.

When Connor splits his brother’s lip with his knee, he feels no satisfaction, only the same fear and anger he’s felt for several weeks. Walking home side by side, Murphy keeps spitting blood and giving him the stink eye. He doesn’t know what to do.

Losing him.

The next time Murphy gets detention, Connor walks home alone instead of waiting.

He’s sitting on the side of Murphy’s bed and staring at the floor when the door flings open.

“What the hell?” Murphy stands in the doorway. “Ye didn’t wait for me. Why wouldn’t ye wait for me? Are ye sick?” He moves toward him with his hand up to feel his forehead.

Connor stands and swats the hand away. “Figured yer new best friend would wait on ye. So I came home.”

The belly snake writhes.

“Why would ye…?” Murphy frowns. “Con, don’t you like Michael?”

He shrugs. His throat feels raw and too tight.

“Ye know yer my best friend, aye?”

“It doesn’t feel like it to me.” Connor points at his brother with his index finger. “Ye picked him first for footie.”

“I only did that because he’s bloody awful at football and no one will pick him. I was trying to be nice. I thought ye would understand.”

“Well, I don’t.”

They stand facing each other like soldiers in the small space between their beds.

“Just say it, Connor.”

“I fucking hate Michael,” he growls out maliciously.

Murphy takes a step back, eyebrows rising.

“I’m sorry, Murph. I know I’m being a total wanker. I just...I feel like ye are with Michael all the time and ye make me wait. I feel like I’m los-” He cuts himself off and takes a shaky breath. “I just hate him.”

There’s a beat of silence, mere seconds, before Murphy says, “Okay.”

He doesn’t know what that means.

“What’s that mean, Murph?”

“I don’t have to be his friend.” Murphy bites at his thumbnail. “If that’s what ye want.”

Blood pounds in his ears. He can feel his heartbeat.

Mine. Only mine.

This is wrong. He is wrong.

“That’s what I want.”

 *

That night, Connor leaves his bed, crosses the three steps to Murphy’s, and tugs the covers. Murphy pulls them down, scooting over. It’s a ritual.

Connor crawls into the warmth and presses against his brother’s side. “I’m sorry” he whispers. Then whispers it again. “Tá brón orm.”

Murphy looks at him, eyes glittering in the darkness. “Are ye happy now?”

“Aye.” He clears his throat. “Are ye?”

“S’long ye are.” Murphy entwines their hands.

 

 ****

 

America is different. The first thing he notices after the way it smells and looks and how good the tacos are is that no one understands them.

Not their accents.

Them.

Back home, everyone knew them since birth. They were the MacManus boys. Nobody ever remarked about them, except to their Ma when they were being hellions. Everyone was used to them and no one ever said: “You guys are weird.”

It’s one of the first things Rocco says.

Nineteen and fresh off the boat and they already made a friend.

He leans back in a rickety chair that creaks under his weight and listens to Rocco talk about available jobs.

“So I know a guy.” Rocco is all smoke and hair and sunglasses. “He has two legit jobs open right now. One is at the docks, loading and unloading, basic shit. And the other is with this moving company. You move people out of one office into some other office. Shit like that.”

He shakes his head. Murphy does the same.  

"No? What? What the fuck you mean, no?” Rocco asks. “You guys asked if I know of legitimate work and I’m offering you jobs and you’re all, no? What the fuck, man?”

“Roc, we appreciate it. We do. But, we need to - It’s just that - Look, finding a job together is what we want.”

Rocco blinks at Connor. He sits back and blinks at Murphy. He looks around their cheap room in a nine-story walkup with a communal bathroom down the hall. “Why can’t you work apart?”

“We don’t, Roc,” Murphy states.

Rocco huffs. “What the fuck does that mean?”

They cock their heads at him, blow out cigarette smoke, and shrug.

Rocco blinks again. “You only take a job if there are two jobs? In the same place? At the same time? Are you shitting me?”

They shake their heads.

“So, you’ve _never_ worked separate jobs?”

They nod.

“Not even different shifts?”

They bob their heads again.

“Right.” Rocco lights a smoke and looks from him to Murphy and back to him. “You guys ever even _been_ apart?”

He gives Rocco the stink eye as Murphy shakes his head.

Rocco snorts and blurts out, “You guys are weird.”

Murphy replies, “Yer fucking weird, ye dumb wop.”

“No, really.” Rocco nods. “Like the whole simultaneous thing and the way you’re always together and the way you look at each oth-”

Connor smacks Rocco on the back of the head. He doesn’t want to hear where this train of thought is going. He doesn’t want to hear that at all.

*

After Rocco has left and they’re curled up and stretched out in their sleeping bags, he stares at Murphy through the dark until he feels him staring back. “Roc thinks we’re weird.”

“He should know. He’s fucking weird himself.”

"Are we weird?”

It’s not weird to want to be with your brother all the time.  

Is it?

“Fuck no, Con.”  Murphy laughs. “Well, ye are. Everyone back home says yer the weird MacManus boy!”

He beats Murphy with his pillow until he’s pinned with a firm grip, solid weight, and a smile right against his cheek.

They aren’t weird. He’s sure.

Later, when he thinks about how it felt when Murphy smiled against him, how his lips felt on his skin—he finds he isn’t sure about anything.

 

****

 

She isn’t that pretty, but she is persuasive. She buys him another beer and puts her hand on his knee, smiling with her shiny lipstick mouth. He smiles back.

“Con!” Murphy is half-drunk and tugging his arm, laughing into his shoulder. “Let’s go out and smoke.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t need a cigarette right now.” He moves his eyes to the hand on his knee. His brother’s eyes follow.

Murphy takes a step back and glances at the girl. She smiles. He doesn’t. He shrugs at Connor, stalks away.

“Who’s that?”

He can’t remember her name.

“My brother,” he says. “Yer place?”

When they leave McGinty’s, they pass Murphy leaning against the wall, blowing smoke rings at the stars. He flips Connor off as they go by.

 *

When he gets home, Murphy is waiting up for him. He always does - smoking and watching B-movies on their old can’t-believe-someone-was-throwing-this-out tv.

“Have fun?”

“Aye. I don’t know. I guess.” He shrugs out of his coat, tosses his pack of smokes on the table, and sits next to Murphy on the couch.

The watch a masked man kill a girl with an ice pick.

“That’s gross.” Murphy wrinkles his nose, knocks his knee into Connor’s, glances over. “Something wrong?”

He sighs. “She got pissed off that I wouldn’t stay.”

“So?”

“She thought it was weird.” He glances over. “She said we are weird.”

“How are we weird?” Murphy turns away from the tv.

“I don’t know, Murph. She thought it was weird that I said I needed to go home to my brother.”

“Next time, tell her ye have to go home to yer wife and kids.” Murphy grins. “That’ll shut her up.”

“Fuck off.”

Murphy frowns at him.

“She actually said it wasn’t normal. She said that by twenty-two, we should be independent and it’s weird that we still live together.”

The concept of living without Murphy, of not sleeping with him so close he can hear his breathing, is inconceivable.

“Connor?” Murphy grips his shoulder, still frowning. “Do ye care what she thinks? Why do ye care?”

“Because it’s not just her, Murph. It’s everybody. Rocco, the guys at work, even Doc said something to me once.” It comes out shaky.

Murphy slides up against him, touches his forehead to his temple and whispers, “Do ye want to leave?”

Fuck no. Fuck no. Jesus.

He shakes his head and hugs Murphy.

They stay like that for a long time; turned into each other, pressed together, gripping shirts. His breath goes from shaky to normal to nearly heavy as the atmosphere shifts. Murphy feels good with his weight leaning into him, his arm wrapped over his back and his hand fisted in his shirt. But Murphy’s hair tickles his nose and he pulls his head back slightly.

“Connor.” His name is a whisper in his brother’s mouth.

Murphy’s breath ripples over his cheek. He turns his head and feels Murphy’s lips, his mouth, oh fuck. Their mouths are touching, grazing, only just.

They freeze. Everything reduces to this one moment, spinning out like spider silk, mouth against mouth and what next, what next, could I…

Someone on tv screams and breaks the spell. Murphy sits back against the cushions.

Connor swallows.

He glances over because that was almost, was that almost...Murphy’s eyes are focused on the tv, but his cheeks are scarlet. His heart hammers double-time against his chest.

Fucking blushing.

Murphy punches his arm. “I’m hungry. Make me a sandwich, aye?” His voice is rough and quieter than usual.

He clears his throat once and then again. “Cheese or peanut butter jelly?”

He makes one of each and has a hard time not smiling stupidly into his plate while eating.

 

****

 

Rocco introduces them.  

Murphy likes him right away. Connor hates him immediately.

His name is Tim or Tom. He doesn’t give a fuck what his name is. All he cares about is the way the bloke looks at his brother.

When he invites them and Rocco back to his place, Connor is already saying no, but Tim mentions he has a PlayStation. Murphy looks at him with puppy dog eyes and he nods instead.

They go to Tom’s place.

“It’s actually Tim, dude.”

Actually, ye can go fuck yerself.

He spends the evening watching TimTom leer at his oblivious brother. Something burns in his stomach. The belly snake wakes.

 

****

 

There’s a party at Rocco’s. Not a planned party—just one of those things: “Yeah come on to my place. Bring beer. Bring whisky.”

He finds an unattended bottle of Jameson and proceeds to carry it around, sharing with Murphy, both slugging directly from the bottle.

A game of quarters gets out of hand. Somehow a chair is broken and after, he find himself with a lapful of Murphy.

“Ow. Yer fucking heavy,” he says, laughing.

Murphy squirms in his lap and leans forward, the quarter wet and gleaming between his index finger and thumb. He has his eye on Rocco’s glass, and when the quarter successfully sloshes in, he leans back into Connor and steals his smoke.

Connor grips his hips to keep him still because fuck, every time he shifts, pushing back with his arse—

He snaps the thought off just as Tim shows up. Murphy stands and goes to greet him. Connor and the Jameson head to the fire escape.

It’s drizzling, but he remains outside, watching his brother through the window. Murphy laughs and gestures upward. Tom grins. Reaching with one arm, Murphy stretches toward the ceiling. He doesn’t know what his brother is doing. All he can see is TimTom staring at, _fucking ogling_ , the exposed skin of Murphy’s stomach where his shirt rides up. He almost bites through the filter of his cigarette.

This is worse than the Michael situation.

The belly snake twists in on itself. He pours more whisky on it.

 *

Later, with the party petered out and the sun not long from rising, he’s flat out on Rocco’s couch, hoarding one of the only blankets and wishing for his brother.

“Hey, Murphy.”

That’s fucking TimTom. Fucking TimTom is still here.  

He wants to get up, but the room is spinning.  

“What?”

“There’s only one blanket.”

“Ye take it. Con has one.”

Tim laughs. “Yeah, steal his blanket.”

“What the fuck?” Murphy sounds confused. He’s drunk. “I’m not gonna steal his blanket. I’m gonna share it.”

“He’s on the couch,” Tom points out. “Just share mine.”

“Nah, I can share with Connor.”

He loves him.

“How are you gonna fit on the couch with him?” Tim whines. “Just share with me.”

Murphy stumbles into the couch and clutches Conner’s thigh to keep his balance. “I kinda only share with my brother.”

Loyal Murphy. He loves him so much. His heart swells with it.

Tom says, “That’s fucking weird.”

Ye goddamn bastard.

Murphy laughs. “I don’t care.” He yanks the cover down and climbs on, re-covering them both and wedging himself in the slight space between Connor and the back of the couch. Only a fourth of him fits in the space; the rest is draped over Connor. A brother blanket.

Right before he snaps off the lamp, Connor looks over at TimTom’s sour face and grins triumphantly.

Fucking mine.  

 

****

 

They turn twenty-three and celebrate their birthday for the first time since arriving in Boston.

Connor goes first. It hurts more on the neck than it did on his arm, so he reaches out for Murphy. The tattoo artist raises his eyebrows all the way up to the top of his bald head as they join hands. He focuses on Murphy and tries not to think about any of it.

Later, in their messy bathroom, they compare their ink in the mirror.

Identical.

“Happy birthday, Murph,” he says, looking at his brother in the glass. Murphy smiles and hugs him.

He feels Murphy’s heartbeat thudding against his chest and the breeze of his breath when he whispers ‘happy birthday’ into his ear. Murphy pulls his head back without breaking the embrace to plant a kiss on his freshly inked neck. Then he licks it—broad, flat tongue sweeping over swollen flesh leaving a trail of goosebumps.

Connor is so startled that he jerks forward, _ruts forward_ , momentarily pinning Murphy to the sink before he can right himself again.

“Murphy! What? I--?” He can’t get his thoughts to form.

Did he? Should I? Fuck. Did he mean it like-

Murphy squeezes him tighter, kisses the inked skin he just dragged his tongue over. He leaves his lips there briefly before drawing back and moving away without looking at him. Connor watches his retreating back.

I want, I want to...Jesus.

He stays in the bathroom until he stops trembling.

 

****

 

Connor’s having a bloody bad day.  

He’s short-tempered, unable to shake the lingering feelings from last night’s dream.

Nightmare.

He doesn’t remember the details, only that he needed to get to Murphy but was unable to. He can’t wipe away the desperate sense of loss it left with him; the emotion clings to him like a shroud throughout the day.

At dinner, when Murphy asks why he’s being weird, he punches Murphy in the stomach.

They arrive at Doc’s separately and Murphy won’t even look in his direction. Connor is both pissed and sorry, and drinking himself into oblivion seems like a very fine idea.

He’s downing his eighth or ninth shot when Tim walks in, makes a beeline for Murphy, and slings an arm around his shoulders.

Ye motherfucker.

He’s moving before he’s aware of it. Murphy scowls, still sore about the gut punch earlier, but he ignores him and sets his eyes on TimTom. The belly snake thrashes

“Tom, my boy.” Connor grins and slaps his cheek in a friendly way that is decidedly too hard to be friendly at all. “Come get some air with me, Timmy. I need to talk to ye.”

He grips Tom’s neck like a vise, steering him to the door. Once they round the corner in the alley, Connor shoves him into the wall and restrains him by the throat.

“So, look here Tom or Tim or NoOneGivesAFuck. Ye are going to leave. I don’t care where ye go, but ye are going to leave and never come back here. Never go to Rocco’s again and never ever talk to Murphy again.” He squeezes tightly before he lets go.

Tim doubles over gasping for breath. “Fuck you, man,” he wheezes out. “You don’t own him.”

“The fuck I don’t.” He draws back and punches. Tom’s nose breaks with a satisfying crack. “Murphy fucking belongs to me.” He punches him again, grinning at Tim’s howl. “He’s fucking _mine_.” He shoves him back against the wall.

Tom struggles to free himself. “You fucking prick. You’re sick. You’re fucking sick.”

Connor punches his broken nose again, blood slinging off his fist in an arc.

Tim crumples towards the ground, but Connor pins him against the bricks. “You’re obsessed with your own brother. You jealous, weird fuck.” He hisses out the words, lip curling in disgust. Connor draws his fist back again.

“Connor!” Murphy grapples for his brother, dragging him off by the shoulders. “Are ye okay? Did he get ye anywhere?”

“What?” Everything swirls around him in a reddish haze.

TimTom crouches on the cement with his hands over his face, blood running through his fingers and down his hand.

Murphy pulls at him. There are cars. He’s out of the alley. Murphy tugs him along at a rapid pace, looking backwards at him every few minutes.

Fuck. This is fucked. Is it all fucked up?

He allows Murphy to drag him home.

In their tiny kitchen, Murphy shoves at his shoulders until his knees buckle and he’s sitting in a chair. His brother removes his boots, his rosary, pulls his shirt off and uses it to clean away the blood spray coating his face. Then Murphy rocks back on his heels and surveys him for damage.

Their eyes meet for a split-second. It’s grounding. He breathes.

“Fucking hell, Connor. Yer knuckles are split.” Murphy gallops off toward the bathroom. Connor tries to clear the roaring in his head.

When Murphy returns with supplies, he kneels before him, head bent as if in worship, and cleans away the blood from his hands.

“Murph, I’m so sorry,” he says, trying to get his head in order.

Murphy dabs at his knuckles with a cloth. “It’s okay, Con.”

“No.” He shakes his head, ashamed. “It’s the Michael situation all over again.”

Murphy grins. “Well, ye could have just said something. That was quite the display.”

He shakes his head again. “I lost my temper a bit, Murph.”

Murphy slathers ointment on his knuckles, blows air over them. He grins at Connor, wide and nice. “Did ye? A wee bit, ye think?”

Connor snorts. “Yer not mad?”

“No. I’m not mad.” His brother stands, pauses, then touches the side of his face. He rubs his thumb along Connor’s cheekbone, tender and warm. Connor wants to nuzzle into his hand, but Murphy draws back and recaps the medicine. “Let’s go to bed.”

 *

 He lies on his back, listening to Murphy brushing his teeth in the bathroom. He tries to sort his thoughts, but they continue to swirl.

This is fucked. He’s not mad. Not mad. Still fucked. Thoroughly fucked. But-

His covers are tugged.

In the moonlight, in his boxers, sheet gripped between two fingers, Murphy tugs again. The childhood signal that means ‘I need to be near ye’.

Connor pulls the covers back, makes room for Murphy to curl against him. “I’m really sorry.”

Murphy splays his fingers on his chest, pressing his palm over his heart. “Hush.”

He hushes.

His brother drags his fingertips lightly over his chest and stomach as Connor’s muscles start to relax.

It goes on for a long time. Murphy’s fingers trace nonsense patterns on his skin while his breath ghosts over Connor’s shoulder, tickling but not tickling at the same time. He’s lulled into a state of half-sleep, half-hyper-aware of his brothers touch. Before he realizes it, his cock is hard and bulging the sheet.

Jesus. No. 

He tries to turn onto his side to hide his perversion, but Murphy flexes the leg he flung over his and whispers, “Shhhhhh” before he lays his hand flat over his cock, pressing lightly with the base of his palm against the head and fingers stretching down to his balls. Only the thin fabric of boxers is separating them.

Connor bucks up into the heat of his hand before he can stop himself.

“Do ye remember the night, last year, when we sort of kissed, but not really?” Murphy breathes the words into his shoulder.

“Murph, I...” His hips twitch.

“Do ye, Con? Do ye remember?”

“Aye. Of course.”

“Ye were upset about everyone thinking we’re weird and I asked if ye wanted to leave and ye misunderstood.”

“I misunderstood?” Connor croaks, voice like gravel.

“Aye.” Murphy grips Connor’s cock through his boxers, fingers and fabric circling around him.

Connor shudders. “Ye didn’t really want me to leave though, aye? I misunderstood?” He feels Murphy’s hardness against his hip. He wants to touch him, feel the heft of his cock in his hand, stroke over its skin with his fingers.

He loves me like I love him? Like I love him?

Murphy kisses his shoulder, mumbles against it, “I meant we could go somewhere else. Together. Somewhere fresh.” He slides his hand into Connor’s boxers, hovers there without touching.

His hips strain upwards. “Ye didn’t mean ye wanted me to leave ye? Ye meant us leaving together?”

“Aye.” Murphy props up on his elbow and finally wraps his hand around his cock. “I don’t care what people think or say. I never did.” He strokes Connor, looking at him, eyes clear and honest. “I just want to be with ye. All the time. In all the ways. In every way.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, peeling off his boxers. He fumbles for Murphy’s, turning on his side to face him and buries his hands in Murphy’s hair to pull him closer.

Murphy captures his bottom lip and glides a wet tongue against it.

Jesus Christ.

He wants to kiss every inch of Murphy’s skin. His thumbs trace small circles on the delicate spot behind Murphy's ears. It’s so intimate touching him there, his heart swells with it, and for a minute, he feels fragile.

His cock brushes Murphy’s and his brother bucks into him, digging his fingers into Connor’s shoulder. Connor _needs_ to touch him. He moves his hand between them and strokes fingertips over Murphy’s cock. It’s exquisite—soft and delicate covering hard and pulsating.

“Murphy.” He whispers his brothers name like a benediction.

Murphy pulls him flush, trapping Connor’s hand and their cocks between them. He palms Connor’s ass, digging into one cheek and pulling slightly.

“Con, can I? Lemme.” Murphy slips his own hand between them and wraps around them both.

Connor fucks into his brothers hand, his cock sliding against Murphy’s. He kisses along Murphy’s jaw, closes his mouth around where it curves, sharp and defined, and licks the bone there. He kisses down his neck relishing in Murphy’s heartbeat under his lips.

As the wave begins, he opens his eyes, mouth ready to form the words, but he stops when he sees his brother’s face; his eyes are closed and his dark hair sweaty against his forehead, teeth digging into his bottom lip. He’s beautiful.

“Ah, fuck, Connor.” Murphy spills against him, hand slicking through the warm wetness.

His entire world diminishes into Murphy’s hand stroking him. Slippery warmth and brother and friction and Murphy, only Murphy, forever Murphy.

He comes against his brother, over his hand. The world grays out.

When he’s capable, he opens his eyes. “Holy fuck.” Every nerve is singing.

Murphy chuckles, but his teeth worry at his lower lip. Connor smiles at him, trying for a grin capable of lighting up half of Boston, and watches relief spread over his brother’s face. Murphy grins back. He wipes them clean with the sheets.

“We fucked up my bed, Murph.”

“It’s okay. We’ll sleep on mine.”

They move there and curl up in the clean bedding.

He shifts so he’s touching as much of his brother as possible. “Seems like this was...inevitable, I guess.”

Murphy laughs, shaky still. “Aye.”

They put their foreheads together, breath and stare.

“We’re truly fucked up people, Murph.”

“I don’t care.”

“Me either.” He doesn’t. He kisses Murphy.

It’s not weird to want to be with your brother all the time. To want to fuck your brother. It doesn’t feel weird. It feels like love.

They kiss until his jaw grows tired and his cock is throbbing again.

“Maybe we should go back to my bed for a while, aye?”

They do, and between the sticky sheets, he loses all preoccupation with what’s weird and what’s normal, until he knows nothing but Murphy and the weight of him, the intoxicating smell of him, and the taste of his skin.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 


End file.
